A Perfect Winter's Day
by DispatchesFromDistrict7
Summary: Katniss' daughter asks for her mother's help in giving her father the perfect present. Canon-based. A submission for Prompts in Panem Holidays in Panem challenge.


We carefully step our way through the woods, doing our best to keep our tread silent. I feel a small hand slip into mine and tug me to a stop. I look down at my son and Graham gives me wide smile before he extends his arm pointing at something just up ahead to our right that I have yet to notice, a rafter of turkeys.

I nod as I let go of his hand. We slowly pick our way forward and I draw an arrow from my quiver. When close enough, we stop and I pull my bowstring tight and release. The rafter scatters as Graham skips forward to claim our prize.

He calls, "Mama, you did it! And you hit him perfect, right in the eye! I'm going to be able to do that someday."

While he has my silent feet, sometimes he forgets to keep his voice down. I don't doubt that one day he will be as good as me. He loves to accompany me when I hunt, so when he doesn't have school, I'll often bring him along.

I tilt my head back and enjoy the biting winter wind. The snow from the last storm has nearly melted away. Another storm is due to hit by weeks end, so I don't know when we'll get to go out again.

Graham, having retrieved the turkey, is back at my side. I notice a sly look spread across his face before he adds, "It would be easier to learn to be as good as you if you got me a bow for Winter's Day."

I shake my head at my son and give him a smirk, ignoring his statement. "We better get a move on and check the snares."

For weeks, my children have not been able to stop talking about Winter's Day. The holiday has roots from ancient times to traditions found in the old religions. It often combines traditions from the time before Panem, when holidays such as Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, and the Solstice were celebrated.

Winter's Day always falls within a few days of the turning of the year; when the days start to become longer once again. Each family has their own traditions that were passed down through generations. The one common practice in District 12 is a special meal and the exchange of gifts, often handmade or chosen with special care. Little does my son know, I've been secretly crafting him a bow, like the one my own father made me when I was a girl.

Graham and I make our way along our snare line. He checks each trap carefully, removing rabbits and squirrels and placing them in the game bag before resetting the snare. I'm always amazed as I watch his little hands work. He has his father's hands. I've seen him deftly execute complicated knots to catch a rabbit and then hours later sketch using a charcoal pencil with the same precision alongside Peeta.

After the last snare is checked, I say, "We better get back to Papa and Laurel."

Graham and I trek back through the woods to our home in Victor's village. We enter the house through the back door into the mudroom. I leave the turkey and game bag on top of a worktable next to a large sink. I'll clean the game later, once I know Laurel isn't underfoot. She is too softhearted.

After removing my coat and hat, I assist Graham in removing his outerwear and boots. He runs into the kitchen while I sit down to remove my own boots. I smile as I catch the scent of vanilla and spices permeating the air. Laurel and Peeta have been busy in the kitchen.

Smiling, I walk into the kitchen where Graham is already sitting at the table stuffing a cookie into his mouth. Peeta is leaning down next to Laurel as she carefully decorates a sugar cookie. I walk over and admire her work. The cookie is painted like a poinsettia, using green and red frosting and accented with silver nonpareils.

"That is beautiful sweetheart!"

Laurel beams and turns, wrapping her arms around me. "Mama! Today was so much fun. Papa taught me how to bake sugar cookies and peanut butter blossoms and cinnamon rolls. Come see!" She prances away to point out the various baked goods spread throughout the kitchen.

"Good. Did you remember to go to Grandpa Haymitch's?"

Laurel rolls her eyes. "Of course," she says, grabbing another frosting bag to start decorating the next cookie. Only a few remain.

I snort and look at Peeta who is grinning. I walk up and buss him on the lips, wrapping my arms around his waist and tucking my head into his shoulder.

He whispers, "I made sure she took care of the animals before we started."

Laurel reminds me so much of Prim. She somehow manages to find every hurt stray cat, dog, rabbit, or duck in the district and brings it home to fix. I tried to put a stop to it at first, but Haymitch said she could keep them at his house until they recovered. My daughter has Haymitch wrapped around her little finger. She carefully nursed all the animals back to health with the gruff help of her grandfather but then they wouldn't leave. On top of his gaggle of geese, Haymitch now houses Laurel's menagerie.

I nod into Peeta's chest and enjoy his scent. "We managed to shoot a turkey today. It will be perfect for Winter's Day. I'll prep it in a bit but it's out in the mudroom."

Peeta releases his hold on me and steps back. "Great. We finished much of our baking. We'll package up cookies for gifts to deliver to the neighbors tonight. Unfortunately, Hiley called awhile ago. She needs to run one of her kids to the doctor so I have to run back to the bakery to close up."

"Okay. I'll get the turkey ready and get a stew going."

"Let me just help Laurel finish these last few. She did really well today." If a baking gene exists, it looks like Laurel has inherited it. Peeta only needs to show her how to do something once and she catches on.

After Peeta leaves, I send the kids out of the kitchen so I can get dinner started. Once the rabbit stew is simmering on the stove, I pluck and clean the turkey. It will be perfect for our Winter's Day feast in two days' time.

The house seems too quiet, so I go looking for the kids. Graham is nowhere to be found but Laurel is sitting on the sofa studying a book.

It's our family recipe book. The day I told Peeta I was finally pregnant, the first thing he said was that he needed to call Doctor Aurelius. He hugged me tight then walked off to make the call from our study. At that moment, I had been so confused. I knew Peeta wanted a baby, so I couldn't understand why he would be upset enough to call our psychiatrist.

After he spoke with the doctor, he came out of the study and made me dinner before spending the night slowly showing me all the ways he loves me. A few days later Peeta came home with a package, another blank book like the one Doctor Aurelius has sent me all those years ago. Peeta asked for my help. He wanted me to copy his family's recipes into the book, which would be passed down to our child. A book that collected the knowledge and traditions of his family the way the plant book had for my own. Of course, I agreed.

Peeta planned to write them down each recipe on scratch paper so I could carefully enter each one while he created illustrations. Despite Peeta's ability to capture an image with paint or pencil, his handwriting is terrible. Working on that book had been beneficial for both of us; he was able to remember his family again while creating a connection for our child. It gave me something to focus on when the terror of my pregnancy sometimes felt like too much.

I walk up to Laurel and see that she is carefully studying a recipe from the book. I've watched her flip through this book often, so this is nothing new. Peeta doesn't need the book to bake. He knows the recipes by heart, but he always pulls it out when he's teaching a recipe to either Laurel or Graham.

"Where's your brother?"

"He's upstairs drawing."

"What are you looking at Laurel?"

"Mama, I finally know what I want to give Papa for Winter's Day!"

It is important to Laurel to give the perfect gift and this year she has had a hard time deciding on Peeta's. I teased her this morning that she was quickly running out of time. Graham had figured his out weeks ago. Peeta was getting a painting and I was sure that so was I.

"Have you, Pumpkin? What have you decided on?"

"I want to get up early on Winter's Day and surprise Papa by baking this recipe. Will you help me?"

Winter's Day is one of the few days of the year that Peeta does not get up before the sun to open the bakery. He sleeps as late as our children will let him. I'm curious as to what Laurel wants to bake for him. I'm a terrible baker but Laurel really has learned a lot. Surely the two of us can figure it out.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea. Let me see the recipe," I agree as I sit next to her.

I look down at the page and realize it is the one recipe in the book that Peeta never bakes. Julekage. I remember Peeta being strangely silent when I entered the recipe into the book. At this time of year, I often see him studying the recipe but he never bakes it. I've never asked him about it and now I wish I had. I always figured he would tell me when he was ready.

"Mama, it's a bread recipe with raisins and dried citrus fruit. I saw Papa looking at it earlier and I think he will really like it." Laurel bounces on the sofa. Her excitement wipes away my initial hesitance. I'm not sure why but this recipe is important to him.

"I'm sure he will love it. But you realize we will have to get up before the crows to bake it for him."

"That's alright, Mama. This gift is perfect."

* * *

On the morning of Winter's Day I awake to the sound of light scratching at my bedroom door. Laurel. Peeta shifts and I whisper, "Go back to sleep, it's probably one of the kids." I ease out of bed to slip on my robe and walk to the door. Peeta starts to snore again as I ease the door open.

"I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes," I whisper to my daughter.

She nods and stomps down the hall. I'm amazed that Peeta can sleep through it and shake my head. As quiet as her brother is, Laurel is the exact opposite. Loud. I can't take Laurel into the woods to hunt as she instantly scares away all game in the area.

I slip off my robe and don the flannel pajamas that Peeta made quick work of the night before, then sneak into our bathroom to clean up.

Peeta continues to snore as I ease out of our room and head to the kitchen. Laurel has the family recipe book open and is already gathering the ingredients and supplies for the Julekage.

"Mama, I need you to help me melt the butter," Laurel directs. We do not allow her to touch the stove yet.

"Okay, how much do we need?"

She looks at the book. "We need to melt one-quarter cup and set it aside to cool."

I do as instructed. I can handle melting butter. While I can cook throwing in a pinch of this and a bit of that of whatever we have in the house to make a stew, I've never mastered the skill of baking despite Peeta's efforts.

While I melt the butter in a small saucepan, I see Laurel place water, yeast, and a bit of sugar in a bowl before quickly whisking it. She puts it aside. "The recipe book says to wait until this is frothy then we add the butter and an egg," she informs me.

When it is time, she dumps in the cooled, melted butter and an egg. She asks me to whisk it until it is well combined while she gathers the dry ingredients.

Laurel carefully measures the dry ingredients into a bowl and mixes it with a spoon. Then she combines it with the wet ingredients. As she stirs, she asks me to get the milk. I look at the recipe book and see that it asks for two to five tablespoons of milk. I measure out some milk into a glass, guessing it's between two to five tablespoons. It looks closer to five but the recipe isn't specific. I hand the milk to my daughter and she dumps it in and stirs. The dough seems really sticky and a bit runny. It's not forming a ball and just doesn't look right. Laurel and I look at each other puzzled and then go back to the book.

It says that we should have a silky ball of dough. The mixture in the bowl will never form a ball.

"Sweetheart, maybe a bit more flour will fix it." I grab the flour canister and pull on the lid. It's on tight. Laurel must have jammed it on. I yank on it and flour goes flying into the air, covering the front of my green pajamas. Laurel looks at me and laughs and I laugh with her as I shake flour out of my hair and off my pajamas. I scoop out a bit of flour into the bowl and Laurel continues to stir. But the dough still doesn't look right. Now it's too dry and lumpy so we try adding some more milk.

"What are my ladies up to?" Peeta ask as he stumbles into the kitchen, half-asleep.

"Papa, you'll ruin your Winter's Day present! You can't come in here!"

"Pumpkin, I think the jig is up. Look at this." I point at the bowl. "We need help."

Laurel's shoulders deflate and her lower lip quivers as she looks at her father. "I wanted to surprise you by making the recipe you always look at in our book. Julekage," – which she pronounces 'jU - lEE-cage'.

Peeta's eyes widen and I see him grip the back of one of the kitchen chairs. I'm now afraid that I have made a big mistake. He blows out a breath and looks at me. His eyes aren't dialated. They are clear blew and suspiciously watery. My Peeta is still with us. He rushes forward and swoops Laurel up into his arms, pulling her into a tight hug. "This is the best surprise! It is perfect. Why don't you go get your brother?"

He puts her down and Laurel runs off, clambering up the stairs.

Peeta turns to me and pulls me into his arms. His lips meet mine in a fierce kiss. Our tongues tangle for a moment before he pulls back as the kids come running into the room. "To be continued later," he promises.

"Okay, today I'm going to teach you how to make something that my father taught me to make as a boy, Julekage," pronouncing it 'jool-kaag'. "We only made this on Winter's Day and it was the one day of the year that we not only had fresh bread, but it was full of fruits and spices."

Peeta takes the children step by step through making not one but two loves of the bread, spiced with cardamom and nutmeg and sweetened with raisins and candied citrus. He explains why they are making two loaves; one to enjoy today and the other to make French toast tomorrow, which causes Graham to crow with delight. He starts banging on a nearby bowl with excitement, until I chastise him by calling him by his full name, "Graham Ryeland Mellark, settle down." He loves French toast.

A couple of hours later, we sit in front of the fire, admiring our Winter's Day tree while we snack on pieces of bread. The children play with their gifts. Graham was thrilled to receive his bow but he is now experimenting with his brand new colored pencils. Laurel hums along to the tunes as she reads her new songbook. Haymitch is coming over later and I need to get the turkey going, but for the moment we enjoy the quiet.

Peeta nudges me and holds out a small piece of bread between his fingers that he's toasted in the fire. I grin up at him and take a small bite before leaning forward to kiss him softly.

Perfect.

* * *

A/N:

Thank you for Pookieh for being an amazing beta and to Alexa and Chelzie for pre-reading.

If you'd like more information about my fanfiction please visit my tumblr: dispatchesfromdistrict7

The characters are the property of the amazing Suzanne Collins and do not belong to me.


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